


Your Jealous Bed

by seriousfic



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, F/F, Female Character of Color, Female-Centric, Femslash, First Time, My First Work in This Fandom, POV Female Character, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 03:08:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5727433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seriousfic/pseuds/seriousfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Max and Eleanor didn’t have a first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Jealous Bed

Max’s room looked different in the dark.

 

Eleanor had been there on a few occasions on her father’s business. More her business now, of course. There had been occasion where one of the merchants or captains she was trying to run down had been ‘relaxing’ with Max and… it was one more part of the dance they did. Max would finish, she would get the door for Eleanor, and Eleanor would have her negotiation with a relaxed, amenable man.

 

Their dance: Eleanor seeing Max across the way in the brothel, lounging about on the balcony, supposedly to enthrall passersby with her charms, but Eleanor always felt like she was the only one seeing her. When Max came into the bar for a drink—rare, such a rare treat—Eleanor would give her wine straight from the bottle, not watered down or recovered from unfinished cups.

 

When Eleanor bathed, she would think of Max and how her body would differ from Eleanor’s own. And she would wonder what Max wondered. To and fro, to and fro…

 

In the daylight, Max’s room was cramped, a little tawdry. The decorations did not draw together, but evidenced the lack of resources available for a lady to outfit her room. The rugs and blankets were threadbare, and the bed had seen too much use to possess any more dignity than that of a misshapen blob. Max herself was the only bedding that would make the mattress palatable.

 

But Eleanor had come at night. She had planned it. No, she had fantasized about it, and the thought had grown, pushed out all other mindings until it became a plan. Most of the ships of Nassau were off, taking their crews with them. Those that were ashore had been there a while; the whoring and boozing had died down from euphoric to routine. And at this time of night, even the most committed partier was making the transition from inebriation to hangover.

 

This had been the situation for three nights. Always, Eleanor telling herself she would go. Arguing herself out of it. Max seemed to know her thoughts. She did not come to the bar. She splayed herself on her balcony, like some great-winged bird of prey perched up high, waiting for the mouse to emerge from its hole so she could swoop down upon it.

 

God, she was beautiful. Sitting lengthwise on the railing, one long, bare leg protruding from her dressing gown, sailing all the way down the length of the banister. But it seemed like no one else would purchase her. Eleanor didn’t know how they could resist. She didn’t know how she could resist.

 

She was not to find out.

 

In the dead of night, swathed in such a heavy cloak she felt like a darkened ship prowling a still sea, she crept across the infernal gulf that had separated them. No one stopped her. No one questioned her. It was like Max’s wishes were drawing her in, granting her safe passage.

 

The room looked different now. The candlelight left more dark than illuminated, the night curtaining the walls, carpeting the floors, hanging from the rafters. Not imposing, not threatening, but intimate, welcoming.

 

The light was no less welcome for it. It was soft. The whispering wind through the parted windows did not make the candles gutter; no, they were too well-placed for that. It lashed the candle flames, caressed them, casting shuddering lights over the room. The light swam and faded and kept its distance, knew its place. Most of all, it showed Max. Max the beautiful. Max the wonderful.

 

“I don’t know why I’m here,” Eleanor said.

 

Max’s tone was coy, her manner candid but unthreatening. “I am thinking that cannot be all the way true.”

 

“I’ve never been here before—“

 

“That is not at all true—“

 

“I’ve never been here for _this!”_ Eleanor sounded stricken to herself. Max’s voice was so soft, so gentle. It was the sound of the night, cool and soothing and restful. It was worth crossing the street just for that, to hear not snippets of it, not echoes underneath the coarseness of pirate talk and the shouts of satiated lust, but _Max._ What Max had to say to her.

 

“There are very many things ‘this’ can be,” Max said, mercifully. Eleanor wished she didn’t have to say anything. Wished Max would just talk and talk and talk. “I do not consider any of them to be wrong.”

 

“And I don’t know which of them is right.”

 

Max bit her lip—a fortuitous shading of the candles showed Eleanor a look of uncertainty, a wavering in her eye. It seemed impossible, but she wondered if Max was as lost as she was.

 

“Sit. Please. You are liable to fall, _mon chou.”_

“Yes,” Eleanor whispered. She sat on the bed. That was where Max gestured. It felt strange underneath her—as hard to sit on as it was to stand upon a rolling deck on a ship at sea. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, centered herself as if this were just another deal, just another responsibility to take on, a decision to be made.

 

Max sat down beside her. A fair distance away, though. Long enough for the shadows to fall between them. “There are many acquaintances of mine who do not require any _la poésie des sens._ They only wish to talk.”

 

“I cannot imagine there are very many of them. Not when it comes to you.”

 

Max seemed to have as many smiles as a necklace had pearls. Eleanor wondered how many were for her. “You say this, when you have heard me speak?”

 

Eleanor felt a smile of her own crest her lips. Unexpectedly, she realized she’d been more stony-faced than usual, conducting the conversation like it was a business negotiation. And still, Max got a smile out of her.

 

“Perhaps you would wish to lie down? Many men wish to lie down when they speak with me. _Peut être_ with your head in my lap…?”

 

Eleanor bounced on the heels of her feet for a split-second, trying to stay in place when she could see the image so vividly, but then she gave in, bolting, leaping to her feet _and then_ trying to stay still, just circling around to see Max sitting there, still calm, still in repose.

 

“No, no, nothing like that—“

 

The other woman leaned back on her hands, her dressing gown falling over her breasts, her hair finding a new twist over her brow. But she did look, if not hurt, then slightly disappointed. Eleanor felt her heart pang, already causing such a look on Max’s lovely face.

 

Her hands wheedled together. “That is to say, I have a bed, a very comfortable bed—it would not be good sense to pay to sleep on your bed—which is _fine_ —but lacking in certain aspects. In comparison. To my own bed.”

 

“But your bed is lacking in Max, _n'est-ce pas?”_

Eleanor ducked her head to hide a nervous giggle. Christ Our Lord, what was _wrong_ with her? “That’s true. It is… very much lacking in you.”

 

“But of course, it is quite sufficient in how much Eleanor it has. I am envious of this. I think my bed is as well.” Max smiled and the room actually seemed brighter. “My poor bed—you taunt it so, speaking of this other bed that is so blessed. _Vous cassez son coeur.”_

Eleanor could not hide her smile anymore. She beamed at Max. “I certainly apologize for my cruel treatment of your fine and noble bed.”

 

Max patted the mattress in a gesture that was unmistakably invitation, even if that was deferred by her next words. “It is of strong stock. It will heal.”

 

She sprawled out now, resting her weight on her elbows, her upper body barely upright, the halves of her dressing gown sliding to either side of her body, barely held in modesty by the sash. A tail of the gown slashed over one of Max’s thighs to cover her sex; it was like a picture of temptation. The very thought that the word ‘lust’ conjured up.

 

“I should go,” Eleanor said, her breath halving and her heart doing triple-time.

 

“You should not,” Max retorted, a gentle but slightly hasty speaking.

 

“I am not ready to be here…”

 

“There is a saying, a very old saying, perhaps you would listen to it and learn a little of the language so that your trip was not wasted. It goes… _mon Dieu, elle est si belle que faites-vous faire get Max il ensemble dire quelque chose séduisant simplement continuer de paraître séduisant ne s'arrêtent pas sonnant séduisant…”_

 

“And what does that mean?” Eleanor asked with a smile.

 

“It means, uh, it means…”

 

“Max, I speak French.”

 

Max’s face fell. “Oh.”

 

“And you used your own name.”

 

Max smiled ruefully. It seemed even more sensuous, knowing she wasn’t untouchable, that this wasn’t just another escapade for her, but that in her own way, she wanted this, was as scared of this as Eleanor. “Perhaps it is I who is not ready to have you here. But maybe we can prepare ourselves—make ourselves in readiness for the next time. You can lie down with me… nothing will happen, we will be as schoolgirls at prayer. But you can see for yourself that there is no great dragon that will consume us for these feelings. _Rien de terrible attente pour notre passion_.”

 

Eleanor matched her smile, sidling over to the bed. “If you’re sure… your bed will not go into paroxysms, having the both of us in it.”

 

“Only Max, _mon chéri_.”

 

Eleanor rested her hip on the bed. Then, bracing herself with her hands, she swung her legs over the mattress, pointing them stiffly at the foot of the bed. Max tried not to watch her too closely as she laid back, slowly, almost suspiciously, tensing up just before she finally rested her head upon the pillow. It was more comfortable than she had reckoned. Then she gasped.

 

Max had taken her hand.

 

“There. This is not so troubling as your thoughts would have you believe?”

 

“Not so troubling at all.”

 

Max seemed to be smiling to herself, cocky and triumphant, and Eleanor found it endlessly endearing. Max turned onto her side, now able to take Eleanor’s hand with both of hers. Eleanor thought it would be a long time before she was ready for more. Just having both sets of fingers clasping hers seemed to leave her out of breath.

 

“It is enough for Max as well. To be blessed with such beauty upon its unworthy covers—I do not think my poor bed could also handle our passion as well.”

 

“Yes, well… perhaps I should purchase you a new bed.”

 

“Max’s prices are not so steep.”

 

Eleanor winced. “Not a payment… a gift.”

 

“I would not be worthy of such finery.”

 

“And I would not be worthy of you—yet—here we are.”

 

“Yes,” Max agreed. She had felt Eleanor squeeze her hand and now knew that it could wait.

 

Everything could wait; everything in its proper time, its proper place. If it were years yet before the both of them were ready, truly ready, to love and be loved, then Max would still be content with being able to anticipate such a wonderful thing.

 

“Here we are.”

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies for the French, I went to public school.


End file.
